Amelia Kaner stopped suddenly and buried her face in her hands.
"Take it easy, Mrs. Kaner," Frank said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to tell us anything that upsets you."
"It's all right, son," she replied, meeting his gaze with sad eyes. "It's just that talking about it brings it all back so vividly."
She cleared her throat and sighed, then said, "Why don't I bring out some iced tea?"
"That'd be great," Frank said. "Let me help."
Mrs. Kaner led the way into the kitchen, and Joe heard Frank drawing her into conversation. As their voices retreated into the rear of the house, he started to check out the living room for any clue the police might have missed.
Going through the untidy stack of books and papers, Joe pulled a sheet of paper out and scanned it. It was a legal document, and on the top of the page were two names in bold type: Sydney Kaner and Jack Parente. They were the plaintiffs in a legal action against a third name that was prominently displayed on the sheet - Barry Johns.
Joe did a double take. Tom had said Johns had a bad reputation with free-lancers, but here were two of his own staff suing him!
Joe started to read the document, but he knew Frank and Mrs. Kaner would be returning soon, so he slipped it back. Quickly flipping through the stack, he saw more legal documents and a few newspaper clippings about Johns.
Mrs. Kaner reentered the room, followed by Frank, who was carrying a tray with tall glasses and a pitcher of iced tea.
"Anyway, Mrs. Kaner," Frank was saying, "how did your husband like working at Zenith?"
"Syd's been very unhappy with Barry for the last year or two," she said delicately.
"Do you have any idea why?" Joe asked.
"Syd didn't share his work with me." Mrs. Kaner paused for a moment. "But I do know he felt he was being cheated out of royalties. That's about all. Sorry."
"Do you think he had any idea he was in danger?" Joe asked her.
Amelia Kaner shook her head. "Nothing he shared with me."
"What was his relationship with Harry Saul?" Frank inquired.
"Syd used to do some work for Harry from time to time. They got on all right, until Syd went to work for Barry. After that, Harry stopped talking to Syd." Amelia Kaner fell silent and took a long drink from her glass of tea. She lowered her eyes. Joe sensed they weren't going to learn any more from her. Catching Frank's eye, he cocked a thumb at the door. Frank nodded, then gulped down the rest of his glass of tea and stood up.
"Thanks for talking with us, Mrs. Kaner," Frank said, extending a hand to her.
"Yeah, and thanks for the tea," Joe added, coming to his feet.
"You're welcome, boys," Amelia Kaner told them as she showed them out.
As Joe and Frank went out the Kaners' front door and got into their car, they noticed the two sleepy-looking cops come alive. Just as Joe'd suspected, they weren't too tired to take notice of the Hardys. Joe watched one of the cops take down their license number, while the other one talked on the radio.
"Well, we know now that Kaner felt Johns was cheating him. Did you learn anything else while I was in the kitchen?" Frank asked.
"I saw some legal papers about a lawsuit with Kaner and someone named Parente, against Barry Johns," Joe told him. "The lawsuit could be over royalties, but I didn't have time to read it."
"Hmmm. I wonder if the kidnappers know there's bad blood between Johns and Kaner? Looks like the case has just gotten a lot more complicated," Frank said.
"Where do you think we should go next, Frank?" Joe asked.
Frank was chewing his lower lip. "The hotel, I guess," he answered distractedly. "But take your time, I want to hash the case out on the way."
"Suits me," Joe answered. He threw the car into gear and guided the sedan down Lake Murray Boulevard.
"Judging from that paper you saw, Johns seems to have a lot more enemies than we thought," Frank pointed out.
"Where do you suppose that stuff about Kaner's stolen royalties fits in?" Joe asked.
"I wouldn't even guess without more information," Frank replied. "I mean, judging from what we just found out, I'd say Kaner and Parente are suspects. But Kaner's a victim, too. It doesn't make sense. And another thing - I still don't understand why the crooks torched Johns's art collection." Frank shook his head.
"Maybe it was for revenge," Joe speculated. "It's one way Saul could get back at Johns and really hurt him."
"Possibly" - Frank shrugged - "but why not steal it and sell it?"
"Maybe the crooks had only enough time to set a fire," Joe suggested.
After an hour of driving and talking, Frank and Joe were no closer to solving the two kidnappings, so they drove back to the convention. Joe wasn't surprised to find Chet in the dealers' room with Tom. Both boys were hunched over a pile of plastic-wrapped Golden Age artwork.
"How'd it go, fellas?" Chet asked eagerly when he saw the Hardys.
"Well," Joe began, "we know more, but there are still too many blank pieces in the puzzle."
"I'd like to talk to some other people from Johns's staff and see how they felt about their boss," Frank put in.
"Try artists' alley," Tom suggested. "Dewey Strong is Zenith Publishing's main penciler. He's got a table there. Come on. I'll show you.
Joe, Frank, and Chet followed Tom to a part of the dealers' room where the tables had been arranged in big rectangles. The artists sat behind the tables on the inside of the rectangles. In front of them stacks of original comics pages were for sale, and there were a few hand-painted signs with the artists' prices for doing sketches.
Tom stopped and gestured toward a cartoonist in his sixties who sat in the center of a table facing the three boys. He was a medium-size, ruddy-faced man with a shock of uncombed white hair. He wore ink-stained khaki pants and a T-shirt with the figure of Metaman.
A mixed crowd of younger and older fans stood around watching as Strong sketched on a pad.
"That's him," said Tom. He walked over to the man and said, "Hello, Dewey. How are you?"
Strong's face split into a crooked grin. "Hi, Tom. How's the boy, huh?"
"Good, Dewey. Hey, listen, these are the Hardy brothers," he told Strong, then stopped to clasp Chet's shoulder. "And this is my pal Chet Morton, a big fan of yours."
"It's nice to meet you guys," Strong said. "Sorry, but I've got a lot of fans here waiting to buy sketches. I can't chat right now."
"We'd like a little of your time, Mr. Strong," Joe insisted.
"It's about Barry Johns's kidnapping," Frank added. "We need any information you can give us about Johns's enemies."
Strong's expression soured. Turning away from the Hardys, he carefully tore the sketch from his pad and handed it to a pudgy youngster wearing a vest covered with superhero buttons.
"Barry didn't have many enemies," Strong said slowly as he began a new sketch. He was obviously picking his words carefully. "I liked the guy. He always treated me okay. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of sketches to do."
With that, Strong bent his head and concentrated on sharpening his pencil.
There was nothing more they could do, Joe realized. Strong would only ignore them until they left. He turned to Tom. "Is there anybody else at the con from Johns's staff?"
"Sure," Tom answered immediately. "Jack Parente is Zenith's head writer. He usually mans the Zenith public-relations table at cons."
"That's the other name from the lawsuit," Joe whispered to his brother.
"Then I definitely think we should talk to Mr. Parente. Let's try the exhibition hall," Frank suggested.
As the Hardys rounded the corner of an artists' table, a massive form suddenly planted itself directly in their path.
The first thing Joe noticed was that the black man in front of him was big. Hard muscles rippled under his conservative brown suit, and his white shirt was stretched tight across his broad chest. His dark eyes glittered with menace as he held up a hand.
"Not so fast, boys," r
umbled the man's deep voice.
Joe drew in a sharp breath and took a step back.
He's big enough to be the Dreadnought, Joe suddenly thought.
Chapter 6
"What's going on here?" Joe asked, trying to ignore how huge the man was.
"Pipe down, kid. I'm asking the questions," the suited man told him. The expression on his broad face was hard. He loomed over the Hardys as he asked, "You kids are Frank and Joe Hardy, right?"
Frank estimated that the guy stood a good half-foot taller than either he or Joe. Frank knew he'd be tough to take on in a fight.
"Mind identifying yourself before we answer that?" Frank asked.
With a bored expression, the massive black man flipped open a worn black leather wallet and flashed a San Diego P.D. detective's shield. "I'm Detective Sergeant Drew Hanlon. I'm working on the Johns kidnapping, and I have reason to believe you boys might have some information about the case."
Frank let out a sigh of relief. At least they wouldn't have to fight the guy. "I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe," he told the officer. "What do you want to know?"
"I'd really like to know why you two kids were badgering Mrs. Kaner."
"Badgering?" Joe practically shouted. "We weren't badgering anybody. She invited us in!"
"Keep your voice down when you're talking to me," Hanlon said sternly. "All I know is that when I called her today she sounded pretty upset. I asked her why, and she told me about your little visit."
Hanlon fixed the Hardys with a hard glare. "I don't know who you two kids think you are, but remember this. Kidnapping is a federal crime. I don't appreciate people who hassle witnesses in cases I'm working on. So just stay away from Mrs. Kaner."
"Sorry, Sergeant," Frank said in what he hoped was a humble tone. "We just thought we could help."
Hanlon snorted. "Maybe, just maybe, the San Diego P.D. can get along without your help. I know I can."
"We're not exactly inexperienced at investigating crimes," Frank told Hanlon. "Sometimes we work on cases with our father, Fenton Hardy. Perhaps you've heard of him."
Hanlon nodded. "Works on the East Coast. Yeah, I've heard of him. Good man. Fine detective," he said. "But that doesn't change anything. I still don't want you nosing around my case."
"But - " Joe objected, a rush of anger creeping up from under his collar and over his face.
Hanlon leaned over so that his face was only a few inches away from Joe's.
"Take my advice and keep away from this case. Me and the San Diego P.D. take a dim view of amateur detectives."
"Amateur!" Joe sputtered. "Why, you - "
Frank quickly stepped in front of Joe to prevent him from saying something that might get both of them into trouble.
"Don't worry, Detective," Frank assured Hanlon. "I'll see that we keep our noses clean."
"You'd better," Hanlon warned before turning on his heel and stalking off.
Joe glared at Hanlon's retreating back. "I don't like that guy," he announced to Frank. "He really rubs me the wrong way."
Tom and Chet, who had remained silent during the exchange with the detective, were relieved when Hanlon was out of sight.
Frank looked at his brother with a hard smile. "Let's find Parente. The clock's ticking on this case."
Finding the Zenith Publishing booth was easy. There was a huge life-size mural depicting Zenith's stable of characters, and above it, foot-high letters announced "Barry Johns's Zenith Publishing Co." It left no doubt as to where they were. The banner stretched behind three tables that were draped with red cloth. At one end of the table was a life-size cardboard standup of a smiling Barry Johns. Johns had a pretty big ego, Frank thought to himself. I wonder if he has the talent to match.
The Zenith booth was deserted. It didn't look as if anyone had been working all day.
"Parente's not here," he observed.
"Maybe he's in his hotel room," Tom suggested. "He's probably got a room at the Vasco. He always stays there during conventions.
Joe frowned. "I don't like the looks of this."
Tom looked uncomfortably from Joe to Frank. "Uh, there's something I should have told you before. About Johns's collection," he began.
Frank looked at Tom, wondering why he suddenly seemed to be so ill at ease. "What is it?"
"Uh, well, the fact is, the kidnappers didn't burn up everything in the collection."
"What do you mean?" Joe asked. "I saw what was left of it - nothing but ashes."
"Uh, not quite," Tom replied. He turned away, bent down, and began to dig through a black vinyl portfolio case bulging with artwork.
A moment later he handed Joe a piece of illustration board; it had one charred side, but the top right-side corner was more or less intact.
"That's part of the original cover art for Wonder Comics Number Twenty-Three," Tom told him. "I saved it from the fire."
"That was a crazy thing to do!" Joe told him angrily. "It's evidence."
Tom gave a helpless shrug. "You've got to understand how it is with us original-art collectors. I saw my all-time favorite comic cover burning, and I just snapped. I tried to save what I could."
Only a small area of the art had survived, Joe noticed, but it clearly showed a part of a giant robot climbing over a crumbling skyscraper. He remembered it from the show.
Joe handed the cover to Frank, who examined it quickly. That explained why Tom had acted so shiftily right after the fire, Frank thought. He said, "You should have turned this over to the police."
Tom lowered his eyes. "I know. But after I took it, I was afraid I'd get into trouble, so I hung on to it. I didn't think anybody had noticed me take it."
"Look, if you're afraid of getting into trouble with the police, give it to us and we'll see that they get it."
Looking relieved, Tom gestured for Frank to keep the charred cover. "Maybe it'll turn out to be an important clue," he said with a thin smile.
Joe was studying the cover as Frank held it. "It might be a good idea to get a list of all the artwork that was displayed. Maybe there's some connection between Johns's collection and his kidnapping." He turned to Tom and asked, "Tom, do you know everything that was in Johns's collection?"
Tom shook his head. "Not everything. But there's an art dealer who would, though. Morrie Rockwitz. Johns sold him some of his best pieces. He's one of the few people who knows Johns's collection better than me."
"Sounds like a good person to start with," Joe said with a grin. He turned back to his brother. "Frank, do you have your tape recorder handy?"
"Of course." Frank pulled it from his shoulder bag and handed it to Joe.
"I have a hunch I might need this today," Joe told him, slipping the recorder into the pocket of his brightly colored Hawaiian shirt.
"I think we should split up now," Frank told his brother. "I'll take Chet and see what we can learn about Parente. Why don't you two nose around the dealers' room and see what you can turn up?"
"Good idea." Joe nodded. "We can cover more ground that way."
The boys agreed to rendezvous back in the dealers' room in an hour. Then Frank and Chet went into the lobby to find a pay phone.
Frank punched in the number for the front desk of the Vasco and was quickly put through to Jack Parente.
"Hello," answered a gravelly voice with a faint trace of a Bronx accent. Frank thought the man sounded tense, on edge.
"Mr. Parente, my name's Frank Hardy. I'm a friend of Tom Gatlin's. He told me you were at the Vasco."
"Tom Gatlin." Parente's voice sounded slightly friendlier. "How is he? I haven't run into him yet at the con."
"He's fine, Mr. Parente," Frank replied. "The reason I called is that I'm investigating the Johns kidnapping. I'd like to talk to you."
There was a long, uncomfortable pause at the other end of the line. "That might not be such a healthy topic," Parente said finally.
"Look, I don't know if you're aware of this, but the kidnappers have a deadline, and it's runn
ing out. I don't think the police really have a clue where Johns is. If we don't find him first, he may wind up dead," Frank said forcefully.
"All right," Parente told him. "Come on up to my room. It's Room Three-oh-two. But make it snappy. I've got another appointment."
"I'll be there in a few minutes," Frank replied.
Suddenly Frank heard a tremendous battering sound at the other end of the line. There were sounds of voices shouting and sounds of a scuffle.
"Mr. Parente, are you okay?" Frank shouted into the phone. There was no reply, only another loud crash.
"Hello! Hello!" Frank shouted.
Then the line went dead.
"What is it, Frank?" Chet asked anxiously.
"I'm not sure, but whatever it is, it's bad. Come on!" Frank dashed across the lobby toward the plaza. He ran across Broadway toward the Vasco, dodging among conventioneers, tourists, and sailors from San Diego's big naval base. Chet followed as fast as he could but he was far behind Frank. By the time Chet puffed into the lobby, Frank had had time to get an elevator and was holding the door open.
Chet stumbled heavily through the elevator doors and slumped against the rear wall of the car, red faced and panting. Frank hit the button for Parente's floor, then turned to Chet.
"I hope we're not too late," he said, a grim set to his face.
When the elevator doors slid open at the third floor, they took off down the hall toward Parente's room.
The door hung open crookedly, and through the open space Frank could see two figures struggling inside. One of them wore bright red tights with a black hood, belt, and boots.
"It's Flame Fiend!" Frank shouted to Chet. "He's after Parente!"
Frank charged through the doorway. Parente was holding a chair in front of him for protection, but Flame Fiend had him backed into a corner. Flame Fiend turned and met Frank's eyes for a moment; then he eyed Chet. The two teenagers spread out and came at Flame Fiend from different directions. The masked kidnapper turned away from Parente to face Frank, who approached him in a combat crouch, his hands held in front of him, ready to parry any blows. Smiling, the criminal pointed his left hand at Frank with a flourish. Frank could see that Flame Fiend had something in his palm.
The Last Laugh Page 4
